


i keep your reflection where it grew (next to my heart)

by kwritten



Series: Femslash February 2019 [7]
Category: Snow White - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, F/F, Femslash, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 15:10:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwritten/pseuds/kwritten
Summary: for the prompt: dark!Snow White/Evil Queen - broken mirrors still reflect





	i keep your reflection where it grew (next to my heart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clytemnestras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clytemnestras/gifts).



dark!Snow White/Evil Queen - _broken mirrors still reflect_

 

It sneaks up on her, the aggression - the desire - the greed. 

Comes in small steps like brownies in the night with the face of the scullery maid when she dipped her bare hand in lye for the first time - an expression equal parts horror, fascination, pity, smug satisfaction. She grows accustomed to the sting of that smugness as she toils in her own palace among her own servants, but the pity cuts like a knife. She wants to shove it back at them all - the slaves, the courtiers, the guards, the ambassadors - wants to run the sharp points of her nails down their faces as they scream and bleed. And then she looks down at her hard, rough, red hands and broken, soft nails and the faint thirst in the back of her throat that screams hollowly for revenge remembers the hunger in her belly. 

_You are mine,_ she whispers to the stairs as she scrubs them. 

_You are mine,_ she sings to the cutlery as she polishes them. 

_You are mine,_ she whispers in her heart to her castle, her kingdom, her people, her thrown, her jewels, her... Queen. 

It's no wonder that queen began to hunger for her heart.   
(She has a nasty habit of eating her own soul.)

(As if that soul were pure and good and ever belonged to her in the first place.)

 

"The staff tells me you've never made a mistake in all your years in the kitchen," the queen sniffs at her _step-daughter_ in feigned disgust and shaky superiority. "Considering the sheer negligence in my own chambers alone, I find it incomprehensible that _any_ member of the staff goes a single _day_ without a few switches over the backside... But perhaps that's just a sign of poor management."

In the corner the butler - the sixth in as many months - shifts nervously at the pointed remark.

Snow raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at the queen, but says nothing. 

She's as beautiful as the rumors say, as the mirror keeps whispering in the queen's ear, but not in the ways that would cause any other queen any worry. Her skin is far too pale from years spent toiling inside away from the sun. Her limbs are too muscular for a princess, her shoulders too broad. Her hair is dark, but dull from malnutrition and ragged from being cut with a borrowed knife and kept hidden away too often. Her lips are too red against her pale face, a sign of consumption if she's lucky - a red that matches the palms of her hands from years of labor, matches the high color in her cheeks (from embarrasment? fear? anger? the queen can only guess and she can't fathom the answer), matches the rim around her eyes from lack of sleep. 

She's not beautiful in a _common_ way, either. Too tall to blend in with the rest of the scullery maids, too broad in the shoulder and thin in the hips, too pointed in the face and thick in the legs. 

But she's _survived_. She is strong. She is defiant. 

The queen sniffs again, as though the mere presence of the princess could cause an allergic reaction, "Or lying, which is another problem I will deal with at a later time. For now, there is no need for you to be a nuisance to the kitchens anymore, I'm sending you to the countryside to work in the fields until you learn how to pull your own weight. I will not have an heir that does not understand the importance of hard work."

The courtiers buzz with excitement. They love her, they respect her, they admire her. 

(They hate her.  
But the commoners love her - she was once one, you know. 

And so the court must love her as well, or else see another pleblian rebellion like they had before.   
Before the Queen made everyone love her.)

Snow bows her head jerkily, playing the part of a sulking teenage princess and dutifully stomps away after the mercenary-huntsman charged with her care.

She's very good at following the expectations her Queen laces into every demand. 

As she walks out, her heart beats, _You are mine._

But the Queen doesn't hear that beat. Not yet. 

 

 

The huntsman is disposed of quickly, tears are disarming she learned this long ago. She stabs his heart with the spare piece of glass she's kept tied on a cord around her neck since the Queen arrived in the castle. If you look closely, there's still a drop of the king's dried blood clinging to a corner like a shadow. 

"Come find me," she whispers as she tucks the glass back under her dress. 

Miles away, the Queen gazes into her mirror - her seemingly _flawless_ mirror - and watches her prey escape yet again. _Go find her,_ the voice in the mirror chides.


End file.
